It’s not pretty. She’s not pretty. She’s not a thin, wistful girl with large tragic eyes. There’s no staring into space while smoking a cigarette and drinking Diet Coke. She’s overweight and plain. Her facial expression matches whatever situation she’s in and does not reveal how she feels. Her apartment is a disgusting mess. She doesn’t manage to still be beautiful with messy hair and circles under her eyes. Her hair is greasy and her pajamas ill-fitting. There’s no getting sent to inpatient where she has a crush (who likes her back) and leaves filled with promise and hope. There is being sent home from the ER after a few hours because she doesn’t have a specific plan for suicide, so it doesn’t matter than she can’t function. She fakes her way through work and eventually gets fired for calling off too much. She eats cereal from the box that she bought from Walgreens at 3 am since she hates leaving the house when it’s light outside. There are cuts on her thighs and sores on her scalp from compulsive picking. She doesn’t turn her misery into haunting music or captivating artwork. She can’t finish a book, watches TV without following the plot. No one notices; no one reaches out. Her friends don’t rally around her. No one wants to rescue her. It’s not a girl looking fragile and crying while indie acoustic plays in the background. It’s her slamming a cabinet door on her arm over and over after looking at photos of her cat that ran away just wishing she could cry. It is slow and heavy and terrible. It’s not like a movie. It’s not glamorous. And it’s not pretty.